


So far from where we've gone

by d1sclosure



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Free day, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Steter Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 19:41:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20120602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d1sclosure/pseuds/d1sclosure
Summary: “Excuse me?”"You heard me."“Let’s say I didn’t,” Peter responded, taken the napkins and wiping himself off.  “Because right now I’m wondering what fresh hell I’ve fallen into and it’s entirely possible I misheard you.”Stiles rolled his eyes.  “I want a baby.  I want your baby, specifically.”“Yeah,” Peter said, leaning back and bringing the bottle to his mouth.  “That’s what I thought you said.”And now he would never be unable to hear it.





	So far from where we've gone

Rarely one to be ruffled, Peter, severely shocked, spat out a mouthful of beer. “Excuse me?”

Where he sat in the booth across from him, Stiles refused to be embarrassed. “You heard me,” he said. Reaching across the table, he plucked up a handful of paper napkins and handed them over with an expression that suggested he had both expected this reaction and had really hoped the clean-up wouldn’t be necessary. Which, Peter thought, was rather redundant when the boy—young man now—had waited until he had taken a sip before speaking. 

“Let’s say I didn’t,” Peter responded, taken the napkins and wiping himself off. “Because right now I’m wondering what fresh hell I’ve fallen into and it’s entirely possible I misheard you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. His hands, where they were braced on the table, curled around the bottle of beer he’d set down when he arrived.

“I want a baby.” Stiles blinked. “I want your baby, specifically.”

“Yeah,” Peter said, leaning back and bringing the bottle to his mouth. “That’s what I thought you said.”

And now he would never be unable to hear it.

The bar they were in was a fancy affair, nothing like the proper wet-wood and rickety chairs that had still been popular when he’d been a teen learning the art of a campus pub crawl. Now, everything gleamed with a thick coat of polish, catching the soft golden light spilling from artfully naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling while the cocktail array of colorful liquids stood out proudly atop their glass perches.

At this time of night, the place was crowded with a rowdy and boisterous crowd—everybody out celebrating the end of another dreadful week of dragging their feet through the drudgery of their lives. Peter would have never imagined Stiles in a place like this, but, seeing how easily their little bubble of space disappeared in the sea of people, he could understand why Stiles had chosen to meet here.

When he’d first gotten the message, he had thought it a joke, suitably scoffed, and put it aside.

Then Stiles had turned up—like a weed, really—leaning on the doorframe of Peter’s office, looking at home in his skin and the high end legal building in a way he hadn’t in Beacon Hills. Not for a long time, at any rate. Once he’d gotten over his shock, they’d _talked_. And, as these hoodwinking things went, Peter had, _stupidly_, agreed to meet him for drinks at High Top, a popular bar that had opened up and, according to Stiles, received wonderful reviews; both for their food and their alcohol.

It was the alcohol Peter was most interested in right now.

“Why me?” he asked, because of all the questions chasing each other through his mind right now, that was the one that fell out of his mouth. Then, before Stiles could answer, “How did you even find me, for that matter?”

Nose wrinkling, Stiles fixed Peter with a _look_. “I never lost you,” he said. Peter half expected him to spit out the profile Stiles had undoubtedly already compiled, listing everything from his date of birth to his daily battle with the parking ticket machine. Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it with a sigh, and Peter almost smiled. From that reaction, it was fair to assume Stiles had been about to do just that.

Dragging a hand through his hair that did nothing for his style and drew attention to the shadows beneath his eyes, Stiles huffed an explosive sigh. “Look,” he said. “What does it matter? I’m not going to beg. I’m in the market and you were close. Just. Just—yes or no?”

Peter smiled thinly. “No.”

If he hadn’t been paying attention, he would have missed the flicker of shattered hope in Stiles’ eyes. As it was…

Stiles nodded. “Right. Well. Thank you, for your time. I’ll just leave you to it—” He pushed the still-full bottle away and made to leave.

Peter lunged across the table and, with a tight grip on his arm, forced Stiles to remain seated.

“Not,” he continued, “until you tell me _why_.” Then a thought occurred to him and he realized what had been bothering him about this entire ordeal. “And where is Derek? Why isn’t he here, holding your hand? Last I heard, you two were engaged.”

“We broke up,” Stiles said. He eyed Peter’s hand on his arm for a considering moment, then shook it off and slowly resumed his previous position. “Couples do it all the time. Surely you know that.”

“And what of the good Sheriff?” Peter asked with a few too many teeth showing. “What does he think of this?”

Stiles stared at him. “My dad’s dead.”

…well if that didn’t make him feel like a dick, nothing else would, he supposed.

“How…?”

Stiles’ mouth quirked into a sharp, bitter smile. “A lot can happen in six years.” As he spoke, searching fingers tugged closer an unused napkin and started ripping it apart by the edges, short, neat little tears. “You know how it is. The dead don’t stay dead. Argent matriarchs get silly little ideas in the little psycho heads. The antisocial wolf falls for the sociopath with a grudge and never sees the knife coming—figuratively and literally. The pack pisses off the wrong people and don’t clean up their messes and then, low and behold, the alpha forgives the wrong person and is honestly surprised when they don’t keep their _promises_.” He laughed, like he couldn’t believe his own words, and like he might just break something if he didn’t.

Peter didn’t offer his condolences. He wasn’t sure they would be welcome.

Sniffing, Stiles wiped his eyes. “You were right,” he said abruptly. “To leave when you did. I wish—” he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I wish. What’s done is done. Can’t change the past, so.”

No. No, you certainly cannot. Peter knew that better than anybody. Perhaps that’s why the silence they fell into was heavy sympathy.

He wondered, not for the first time, what Stiles would have done if he’d offered to take him with him. After dying then crawling his way back to the land of the living to scavenge together the scraps he’d called a life, then dealing with the fucked-up headache of the Alpha pack and the Darach, Peter had taken the first chance he got to get the hell out of Beacon Hills. He hadn’t told anybody, hadn’t done anything to suggest he was leaving until he was already gone, and by then it was too late. He’d changed his number, cut off contact and never looked back. 

He didn’t regret it.

Looking at the misery that godforsaken Hellmouth had wrought upon the only bright spark in the entire time county, he still didn’t.

“Do you know how my mother died?” Stiles asked, carefully light in a way that suggested he was anything but.

“Can’t say I do,” Peter answered, wondering at the non-sequitur.

“Frontemporal dementia.” Stiles tore the last of the napkin apart and scattered the pieces. “It’s genetic,” he added. He looked around them. “Which means any kid I have is basically fucked from the get-go, unless…” he trailed off leadingly.

Peter picked up the slack easily. “Unless you find a way to hijack the pregnancy from the start.” He tipped his beer in Stiles direction. “Smart.”

“Thank you.”

“But I still don’t understand why you want me to help you with this. Why not adopt?”

Stiles scoffed. “I have a criminal record. That kind of shit shows up in the system. There’s no way I’d get so much as a second look, never mind be considered as a legitimate application.” He paused, hesitating, and licked his lip. “Besides.” Then he stopped.

And all of a sudden, Peter understood. Without his father, without the pack. . . Stiles was lonely. It was as simple as that. “Ah.” He set his beer down.

Stiles looked up sharply. 

“You want it to be yours,” Peter said, voicing the turn of his thoughts. “Biologically. You want to give your life _meaning_,” he sneered, unable (or perhaps unwilling) to explain the mess his feelings twisted into at the thought. “How dull.”

“God, you are such a fucking dick,” Stiles hissed, dismayed and furious and _hurt_ and, “I don’t know what I was thinking, asking you. I must have been out of my _fucking mind_—”

“Sit your ass down.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”

Clearly conflicted, Stiles hovered, inches out of his seat. “So?”

“What do I get out of it?”

“What?”

“What,” Peter repeated slowly, biting off each word and leaning over the table. “Do I. Get out. Of it?”

“You mean, you don’t want to tap this?” It was weak. Stiles crumped in _seconds_. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Pack.”

Stiles startled. “What – how do you mean—”

“I want to be involved,” Peter told him, taking Stiles’ hand in his. “For all of it. I don’t want to miss a single part.” He eyed Stiles thoughtfully. “I don’t think you fully realize how territorial us wolves become regarding out mates. And you, Stiles, would, for all intents and purposes, be my mate. Still want to go through with this?”

Stiles’ answer was immediate, promising, and lit something in Peter that had been dark and dormant for a very long time.

“Yes.”

Peter grinned. No going back now.

He raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the jackrabbit pulse fluttering through Stiles’ veins.

Oh yes. This was going to be _good_.

**Author's Note:**

> While this is nothing like what I had planned, I wanted to post one last work before Steter Week officially ended.
> 
> Although I was super excited for Days 5 and 6, actually writing the submissions for those prompts have been kicking my ass. And not in a fun way. More like a _what the hell was I thinking oh my god_ instantly regret all life choices leading up to this point, kind of way.
> 
> But! I will have finish those submissions in the near future and will upload them when I can.
> 
> To the organizers of Steter Week 2019 -- thank you so much. The prompts were awesome and it was so much fun to participate :D
> 
> To the readers, you guys rock.
> 
> And to everybody that's left kudos or comments on my other works, platonic hugs and kisses for all of you. You've all been so _nice_ and I will (hopefuly) get around to replying, presently.


End file.
